Thursday, September 26, 2019

In Which I Admit I Have A Problem (But I'm Not Doing Much About It)

Ah, September! You are sneaking away so speedily, like the chipmunks that scatter across my deck. When I sit out on my chaise lounge, book in hand and ice water tumbler in a shady spot, I'm so quiet and still that many of them wander right up to my chair. If I've sought the coolness of my umbrella table, some will even scamper across my feet. The moment I move to grab a sip or turn a page, however, they run for cover as if launched.

And here's me, trying to think of the last time I ran. Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh.

Perhaps I shall have to run one day soon. You see, each day on my walk, I pass by a tall fence bordering the sidewalk, and peeping out from its slats are a few fronds of a cherry tomato plant. Every so often, there is a perfectly cheerful little ripe tomato, completely red and plump, hanging there to greet me. I've been picking them and eating them as I go on about my way, telling myself that it's Perfectly Okay, that they're Sidewalk Tomatoes, all the while living in fear that the gardeners will one day catch me at it and I'll have to a) run like hell and reroute my walk; or b) face up to my sin and apologize like the Tomato Thief I am.

More likely, I'll walk by one day and there will be a sign that says STOP STEALING OUR TOMATOES! THIS MEANS YOU!

All of those things sound terrible.

But today, I ate two of them and they were terrific.


Thursday, September 05, 2019

It's A Peanut Butter Thing

I grabbed my huge water tumbler just now and there was peanut butter on it. Not a lot, but enough to make me roll my eyes, sigh, and not feel the least bit amused by it. It's ridiculous how often I find small dabs or smears of peanut butter in the most out of the way places. And lest you think I'm babysitting a toddler, let me assure you that I'm not. And for those of you who are settling in for a husband rant, you're going to be disappointed.

It's me; I'm the Typhoid Mary Of Peanut Butter.

Honestly, it's embarrassing. That stuff gets all over me whenever I'm near it. It doesn't help that I'm into the peanut butter every single day, sometimes twice.

During the summer Rick eats the very same lunch every single day, a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. He simply cannot face anything else, especially in the heat when he's out in the field. So, every night, I make him his Smucker's and Extra Crunchy Jif on wheat bread sandwich. As you can imagine, we buy a lot of peanut butter, so I get the enormous three pound jars, which are about eight inches tall, at the warehouse store. Once the level of peanut butter goes down in those jars, it's tough to maneuver the knife in there, especially in Extra Crunchy. Why don't the Jif, Peter Pan, and Skippy people put peanut butter in wide-mouth, squatty jars? Life would be so much easier! (And can we do something about that paper disk on the top that never, ever comes off cleanly and efficiently and that I have to wrestle with, resisting the urge to use my teeth? That would be terrific, too.)

As a child I had not much use for peanut butter. Now I am suddenly attracted to it like chocolate. A tart apple with peanut butter is my favourite lunch. Sometimes, I just eat a spoonful of peanut butter for lunch. Other hungrier times, a slice of toast with peanut butter and cheese.

Later, I find peanutty smears on my wrist, keyboard, phone, or nose. They could be on my sleeve, glasses, or refrigerator water dispenser.


I'm not a messy eater, and this doesn't happen to me with other spreads like butter or mayonnaise or even the strawberry jam. During my Nutella phase aeons ago, it wasn't a problem. And when I occasionally binge on (please don't judge me) marshmallow fluff, I don't mark a trail with it, either.

No, my dear friends, it's A Peanut Butter Thing. Is it just me? And if it is, any idea how I can clean up my act?

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